Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence 1)

‘I know that, Sir. And then?’

‘That depends on the circumstances.’

‘Could you elaborate, Sir?’

‘I do not feel very communicative at present, Mr Linton.’

‘When do you ever, Sir?’

‘Adequate point, Mr Linton.’

Somehow, I thought I could feel some life seeping back into him. Was it only my imagination, or was there a bit of dry humour in his voice? I had to keep talking - if only to keep myself from thinking too closely about what part of me his nose was currently pressing into.

‘So, what will happen, Sir?’

‘Either the crate is opened by a single soldier, or unarmed worker - in which case, we will overpower him and try to make our escape; or it is opened in the presence of Lord Dalgliesh - in which case, we die.’

‘Oh.’

‘Bravely, of course.’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘At least I will. You, of course, have my permission to die cowardly, Mr Linton.’ The unspoken words ‘You are a girl, after all,’ hung in the air. Suddenly, I didn’t feel as much like kissing him as I had a moment ago. Withdrawing my arms from around him, I crossed them in front of my chest, shoving him away. My elbow might have grazed his cheek in the process, purely accidentally.

‘No, thank you!’ I growled. ‘I’ll go for the brave option, if you don't mind, Sir.’

His words echoed in my head: in which case, we die… in which case, we die…

A shiver ran down my spine, half born of fear, half of… wanting?

Not wanting to die, of course. No. I was shivering because I wanted something else entirely - or rather, someone.

If I was going to die anyway, what was the sense in resisting? The silence expanded around the two of us, and in the stillness and the dark I felt him more strongly than ever before. If we were going to die, what was the sense in my keeping my self-esteem? My dignity? Dignity was no good to a corpse. But to spend the last few hours of my life in the arms of another human being, warm and comforting…

Except that he isn’t warm. He’s cold as ice. He feels nothing for you. And you should not feel anything for him. You can’t!

Suddenly, it came. The first wave was almost imperceptible, a gentle swell that hardly moved us, cushioned as we were by the wood wool. But then came another, and another. The rocking intensified. My breath hitched, as I could feel his body press into mine, and draw back. Press down, draw back. Press down, draw back.

‘W-what is that?’ I asked, my voice sounding strange in my own ears.

‘The sea,’ he said, cool and resigned. ‘We have left the Thames and are now out in the Channel.’

Blast it!

I never liked that darned piece of sea! Why couldn’t England be part of the Continent, like every other decent European country? It was simply not fair, the tortures that were inflicted on poor people trying to cross the Channel stacked on top of each other in a small wooden crate!

The motion of the waves grew ever stronger, pressing me against Mr Ambrose with a devilish, regular rhythm. Blood thrummed in my ears, and my breathing became laboured.

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Y-yes, Sir?’

‘Are you sure you do not suffer from fever? Your skin is getting hot again.’

‘N-no, Sir. I’m perfectly fine.’

Desperately, I grasped around for something to talk about, something to distract me, so I would not succumb. But there was nothing. Nothing I wanted to say, or do, or know…